Tuesday, May 5, 2015

A Charlotte Smith Poem



On Being Cautioned Against Walking on an Headland Overlooking the Sea, Because It Was Frequented by a Lunatic


Is there a solitary wretch who hies
  To the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow,
And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyes
  Its distance from the waves that chide below;
Who, as the sea-born gale with frequent sighs
  Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf,
With hoarse, half-uttered lamentation, lies
  Murmuring responses to the dashing surf?
In moody sadness, on the giddy brink,
  I see him more with envy than with fear;
He has no nice felicities that shrink
  From giant horrors; wildly wandering here,
He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know
The depth or the duration of his woe.



(1783)

1 comment:

  1. ...and here we all raise a glass to the Nice Felicities.

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